


Eidetic

by rexluscus



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-04
Updated: 2011-07-04
Packaged: 2017-10-21 00:28:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/218913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexluscus/pseuds/rexluscus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ianto doesn't have room in his head for much else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eidetic

At any moment, Ianto Jones knows everything that is happening in Torchwood Three: the load on the generator, the percent usage on each of the servers' processors, which phone circuits are engaged and the rough subject of each conversation, the number of cups, sleeves, sugar packets and creamers remaining and the date he'll have to order more, the amount of petrol in the SUV, how many cups of coffee each of the team has had and approximately when each of them will need more, whether Jack is likely to want him to stay after hours, most of the contents of the Archive and their item numbers, the same for the morgue (thankfully a shorter list), the nature and quantity of every compound in Owen's lab (in case they need to be replenished), and all of the financials for the month down to the last decimal, including how much is left in the discretionary fund ( _especially_  how much is left in the discretionary fund). He can also whistle the first movement of the second Brandenburg Concerto from beginning to end. (He has perfect pitch but can't play anything. There's a story of his life in there somewhere.)

"It's upstairs on Jack's desk," he says to Tosh, who had been about to ask him if he'd seen her hand-held.

"Try command-enter," is his suggestion before Gwen has the chance to ask him how to unfreeze the database program.

"Yes," he says to Jack. There's a slim chance Jack had been about to ask whether the pterodactyl had been fed today, but he doubts it.

Gwen finds him fascinating. "I suppose you must have a photographic memory," she says. "Maybe your mind just--can't forget things."

Ianto once read about a man who couldn't forget and went mad because his head was too full of memories to allow him a genuine thought. He's not like that yet, but the sheer volume of information in his memory, some of it worth knowing and some not, gives him a good excuse not to think very much. 

There are some situations in life, unfortunately, that present so little information that thinking is unavoidable, simply because there is nothing else to do. 

Ianto slumps disconsolately against Jack's desk. "I know what aftershave you use, how many pairs of socks, shirts, vests, pants and trousers you own, how long and often you sleep, all of your Chinese food preferences and their evolution over time, how many flights of stairs you can run up before you get winded, how long you stay dead after a bullet to the head versus one to the chest, how long it takes you to do the Friday puzzle--and it's all nothing, isn't it?"

Jack smiles sympathetically. "I know it's frustrating." But he offers nothing more.

Ianto folds his arms, and finds himself thinking. Not recalling, cataloguing, computing or assessing, but thinking. He's from a long line of stoic, invisible servants who miss nothing, but as his mind opens up in the presence of this informational void, he looks for the first time upon himself. And as Jack watches him warmly, he sees himself reflected there--hunger, desire, love. It startles him. He clears his throat and straightens his tie.

Jack has already pulled him close, but his brow is still crinkled. For the first time, it occurs to him to ask, "Why me?"

Jack laughs softly and kisses his neck. "Maybe it's because you're mysterious."


End file.
